My Town

2. No Such Thing As Normal

It was a dull, grey morning, the forests blanketed by white mist, the hills topped by low cloud. The weather suited Romero's mood just fine, and as he drove his Hummer back to White Pine Bay from the morgue in nearby Scotswood, he felt as if that blanket of mist was descending over his own mind, sucking thought and emotion from his body and into the uniform grey.

Not many of Fitzpatrick's students had looked thrilled about the delivery of a new body, but that wasn't Romero's problem. He'd left the coroner with his students in the hopes that he could get back to the office and start filling out paperwork before the rush of the day. He'd made a brief stop at a garage to refuel his car with gas, and his own body with machine-generated bitter caffeine, before hitting the main highway.

Something caught his attention, but it was a moment before his tired brain caught up with his eyes. Taking his foot off the gas, he let his Hummer roll to a stop as he squinted towards the nearby tree line, where there was a triangular patch of blue in a field, right where the forest ended. As he opened the car door, he popped open the catch on his holster. Sure, it could just be a coincidence that somebody was camping so close to White Pine Bay, but as a general rule he didn't trust coincidences. They were dangerous things to put your faith in.

The morning air was still as he made his way across the field, the green grass springing beneath his boots. No birds called out to each other, or if they did, he didn't hear them. Nor was there a breeze, to brush against the tree-tops, caressing them with a quiet swish. It felt as if the whole world was holding its breath, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Hello," he called out, once he was within a dozen paces of the tent. "Is anybody about?"

Nothing. Not even a muted whisper to suggest that somebody was trying to be silent within the tent.

"I'm with the sheriff's department of White Pine Bay," he continued, approaching the mobile abode with one hand resting casually on the grip of his weapon. "I'm going to give you five seconds to come out of your tent, or I'm going to open it myself."

He waited, and the silence of the forest waited with him. After a count of ten, just to be sure, he crouched down and reached out for the zip, the cold metal chill to his fingertips. Drawing his gun, he pulled back the open tent flap, his weapon held out. The tent was uninhabited, but a few items showed that it probably hadn't been vacant for long. A single blue thermal sleeping bag was open in the middle of the tent, a pair of long-johns abandoned on top of it. Nearby was a large back-pack clearly designed for the serious camper, and a couple of tins of soup were just visible within.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

Romero silently cursed his tired senses as he withdrew from the tent and looked around for the speaker. It was a woman, her flame-red hair pulled back into a rough ponytail, and she was standing just on the edge of her campsite beneath the trees. In one hand she held a toiletry bag clasped to her chest, and the fingers of her other hand held closed her rainproof coat against the chill of the damp morning air. With her new-but-worn hiking boots and tight-fitting leggings, she looked the sort who spent a lot of time outdoors.

But he still didn't believe in coincidences.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Not breaking any laws, if that's what you're wondering," she said, and his ears picked up a British lilt to her words. It wasn't the strongest English accent he'd ever heard, but it was there.

"That's not what I was wondering, and not what I asked," he replied.

He could sense her caution, see it in the way she held herself and refused to come closer, and it didn't escape his notice when she arched one dark brown eyebrow as she glanced over the gun he still held in his hand. He didn't put the weapon away, though.

"My name's Grace Westall," she said. He waited for her to continue, and she gestured at his gun. "If you'd like to put that away, I'd be more than happy to get my ID from my tent, if you want to see it."

He relented, holstering his weapon once more, and some of the tension disappeared from the woman as she took on a more relaxed posture.

"There, see," she said, waiting for him to take a step back before she approached her tent. "There's no need for any of that nonsense. You Americans like your guns far too much. I could almost think it's a compensation thing."

He didn't bother responding as she ducked inside the tent. There was the sound of a bag being rooted through, and she returned with a maroon-coloured passport, which she handed to him. He opened it up at the data page, and found himself looking at a clear picture of the woman. Grace Anna Westall, it read. Date of birth, 09 Mar 1983. Place of birth, Manchester. And the passport was still within date. Somewhat satisfied, he handed the ID back to her.

"Happy?" she asked, running her eyes over his face as if searching for further protest. They were grey eyes, deep like the low clouds which hugged the nearby hills, and he sensed a canny intelligence lurking behind them.

"What are you doing out here, Grace?" he asked.

"Camping," she retorted.

"Why here?"

"It reminds me of home." He gave her a stony look, and she obligingly filled the silence. "I take it you've never been to northern England? It's very dreary and dull. Rains a lot, too."

"And your purpose for being in the US?"

"Research. I'm a historian. I'm writing my dissertation on the emergence and disappearance of small frontier towns during the colonial period, and modern economic factors which influence their growth and development." She smiled. "This is usually the point where people fall asleep."

"You're a little out of the way for doing research on frontier towns," he pointed out.

"I caught a lift this far yesterday, intending to visit White Pine Bay, but it was quite late when I was dropped off. I opted to camp out for the night, and visit the town by day." When he said nothing, she asked, "is that a crime?"

"What sorts of things will you be doing in White Pine Bay?"

"Oh, you know, research stuff," she said evasively. "Poking around the library archives, asking questions of people whose families have been established here for generations. Collating my research notes. That sort of thing."

A dozen thoughts ran through his head as the woman watched him with her cool grey eyes. The first was that this was the last thing he needed right now. Life in White Pine Bay wasn't exactly peaceful, but on the whole it worked because everything was organised, everybody knew their place, and nobody rocked the boat. Not for very long, anyway. But the town's economy was not something that he wanted scrutinised closely, because as far as economies went, it occupied a very dark area.

People had always grown cannabis in the wooded valleys of White Pine Bay. At first it had been a fairly small-scale operation, run by families and friends. Then, things had become more commercial. Gangs had started to form. War had broken out amongst people fighting for the best valleys with the best soil and most favourable climates. Twenty years ago, at the height of the violence, half a dozen self-styled cannabis lords had brought in muscle and guns, and anybody who stood in their way was fair game. It hadn't been a good time to be a cop, and it had been an even worse time to be a naïve cop with a flawed black and white view of morality. Those closest to him had paid the price for his dreams of freedom and justice. And after he'd buried the woman he'd loved, and the child she'd borne him, and emptied an entire barrel of bullets into the skull of his corrupt predecessor, he'd taken the badge for himself and systemically waged a one-man war on those who were guilty of taking away from him everything he had ever cared about.

He'd had allies, of course. A few of the cops weren't as bad as the others, their shades of grey less dark than the tarnished black souls of the murderers, thieves and blackmailers who made up the bulk of the small police force. And there had been Gil; a young man determined to come out on top, who'd sworn to help a hate-fuelled Romero clean up the town, as long as he got the lion's share of the crop. Gil would do things right, he'd promised. There would be jobs for those who wanted them. Money would go back into the community. There could be no war, no anarchy, as long as he monopolised the merchandise. And so far, their arrangement had worked, Gil's operation running as smooth as a well-oiled machine, and the police force stocked with, for the most part, decent, hard-working men.

If this woman asked the wrong sort of questions to the wrong sort of people, he'd end up with another body on his hands. And if she turned up face-down in the bay, or went missing altogether, it might draw unwanted attention to the small town he had protected for half his life. There was only one thing he could see to do; to put her under his protection and tell Gil and his people to avoid her until she left.

"This isn't the Cotswolds," he said. "This is a dangerous place to go camping. Especially for a woman alone."

"That almost sounded like a threat, Sheriff..?"

"Romero," he replied, realising that in the heat of the moment he'd forgotten to give his name. "And it wasn't a threat, just an observation. We get a lot of cougars here, along with wildcats and sometimes even black bear. It's dangerous to go walking in the woods alone, especially if you're unarmed."

"Well, thank you for the warning, Sheriff. I'll be sure to get my things packed up quickly."

"There's a motel a mile or two up the road," he said. "The only one in town. It's hardly the Ritz, but it's clean enough and the rooms are cheap. Make your way there, and I'll ensure there's a room waiting for you."

"That's very kind of you," she smiled.

He let her believe that lie. Though he was loathe to give her free run of the town, at least if she was staying at Bates Motel, he'd know where she'd be for most of the time. And since he now had Norma Bates firmly in hand, it wouldn't be too hard in keeping tabs on the foreign woman.

"Have a pleasant day," he told her. "And if I can offer you one more piece of advice; don't go catching rides with strangers. You never know who might pick you up."

"Duly noted. And your concern is appreciated. Good day, Sheriff."

Ignoring the casual dismissal, he turned back towards his Hummer, and for the moment tried to forget about the woman in the field as he braced himself for the task ahead. Speaking with Norma Bates, even at the best of times, was like wrestling a bull by the horns, and he had a feeling that today was going to be no different.

o - o - o - o - o

By the time he pulled up outside the motel, the sun had burnt off some of the early morning mist, revealing an azure sky which was just beginning to peep out from behind the grey clouds. It did little to improve Romero's mood. His cup of machine-coffee had gone cold whilst he'd been talking to the woman from England, and there was a dull throbbing sensation behind his eyes which he recognised as a symptom of not enough sleep.

But how was a man supposed to get a decent night's sleep when his damn dreams woke him every few hours? Or when his deputy was calling him to handle some woman who'd gone and gotten herself killed? Didn't he deserve a break? Was twenty-four hours away from the mad-house of White Pine Bay too much to ask for?

Apparently so. As he stepped out of his car, he noticed Norma Bates backing out of one of the motel rooms, dragging a cleaning cart behind her. She was wearing a light blue uniform, perhaps because she believed it gave her an air of professionalism.

She whirled around when she heard him approach, her eyes creasing momentarily into a frown. Then she ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing down a few tufts that had worked their way loose from her bun.

"Norma," he said, greeting her by the name she'd told him to use. He only did it because he knew it rankled her, that he had not extended to her the same courtesy. "How's the motel business?"

"Oh, great," she said, gesturing at her cart with an air of melodrama. "These are the messiest people I have ever known, and I've raised two boys. They leave their crap everywhere, they don't switch off the lights, and I'm sure they're still smoking when my back's turned."

"That's trimmers for you."

Her mouth fell open, and with some satisfaction he noted the surprise on her face. He wished he had a camera.

"You know what they are?" she hissed.

"I met a woman, camping in one of the fields just outside of town," he said, pointedly ignoring her question. Let her wonder exactly how much he knew. He owed her no explanations. "I told her to come here, and that you'd have a free room for her."

"What? I don't have any free rooms," she said, in a petulant tone of voice. Norma Bates, he'd decided, was something of an enigma and a loose cannon, all rolled into one. She went from fearsome shrew to childish tantrums at the drop of a hat. She was clever, true… just not as clever as she thought she was. "All my rooms are taken up by the trimmers."

"Gil's men won't mind doubling up for a while," he assured her. "If any of them argue, tell them to come and speak to me."

He turned back for his car, and could practically hear her spluttering in objection.

"What, that's it?" she demanded. "You think you can just come here and dictate to me who's going to be staying in my own motel?"

"Yes," he said quietly, rounding on her. She very nearly flinched, but managed to stand her ground. "That's exactly what I think I can do."

He could see her mind ticking over, considering his words, thinking about everything she knew of him. Or at least, thought she knew. She'd seen him empty four rounds into a man mere days ago, and walk away as casually as if he'd put down a rabid dog. She knew that he'd covered for her and her sons, as far as the deaths of Keith Summers and Zack Shelby were concerned. She'd heard everything he'd said to Jake Abernathy, and she'd been in the town long enough now to know who Gil was, and what trimmers were.

"Well, fine," she said at last. "But don't think this is going to be a regular thing. I could just do with the extra money, seeing as how my business is going to fold once they build the new bypass."

Movement from the house at the top of the concrete stairs caught his attention before he could respond. Both of Norma's boys began to descend the stairs, the youngest, Norman, carrying what was probably his school backpack, followed by Dylan, five years his elder and too old for school. Both boys watched him hawkishly as they made their way to the Hummer that Gil had provided for Dylan, and it was only when they got closer that Romero noticed the faded yellow-brown bruising around Norman's eyes. That was unusual; normally it was the eldest of the sons who sported the wounds of war.

"What happened to Norman's face?" he asked, as the car carrying both boys drove off.

"One of the boys at school punched him in the nose," Norma said, her lower lip catching between her teeth.

"Really? Norman doesn't seem like the type of kid to get into fights," he pointed out.

"Oh, well, it was pretty one-sided as far as fights go." She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Apparently, Norman had been mooning over some girl, and her boyfriend took exception."

"When was this?"

"Friday night, I think. At that school dance thing."

"Norman went to the dance?"

"Yes. With Emma. Decody. You know, the young girl with cystic fibrosis?"

He nodded. "I know her father. Nice family."

"Aren't they? It's such a terrible shame about Emma. She works here for me at weekends, you know? I thought it might give her a feeling of normalcy, to have a little part time job."

"You're a samaritan, Norma," he said dryly.

She merely smiled at him, and tucked a lock of blonde hair behind one ear. He'd noticed she did that when she was trying to hide something.

"And speaking of work, it sounds like I have a room to clean out before your mystery woman gets here," she said, attempting to dismiss him. This time, however, he did not ignore the dismissal. Norma's attempt at changing the subject had not gone unnoticed. The subject of Norman's school life seemed to make her uncomfortable, so he decided to push his luck.

"Did Norman tell you that one of his teachers didn't show up for class yesterday?" he asked.

Her eyes immediately shot up, as if she was trying to recall a conversation. "Hmm, no, I don't think so. But he rarely tells me anything these days. Honestly, it's easier to get blood out of concrete than it is to get information out of a teenage boy. Why?"

He took a step closer, noting the alarm in her eyes, the defensive posture of her body as she gripped the handle of her cleaning cart more tightly.

"You might as well hear it from me," he said. "Today, Principal Hutchins is going to make an announcement to the staff and students at Norman's school. Last night, Miss Watson was found dead inside her home."

The gasp of shock, covered so eloquently by a lift of her hand to her mouth, almost let him believe that Norma truly was surprised by the news. But he didn't believe in coincidences, and so far, everything that had happened over the past twenty four hours was pointing towards that Friday night when he had sent Jake Abernathy to a watery grave. His gut was telling him that there was more going on here than he knew about, and unlike his mind, his gut didn't need sleep to function well.

"My God, that poor woman. What happened to her?" Norma asked.

"She was murdered. Her throat was slashed."

She shivered, running her hands over her bare arms. "Just when I think life here is starting to get back to normal, something like this happens."

For a moment he felt sorry for her. She hadn't asked to buy a property that was likely going to be obsolete within the next couple of years. She hadn't wanted to be raped by Keith Summers, nor blackmailed by Zack Shelby, and threatened by Jake Abernathy. She had, largely, been a victim in most of what had happened in the town, but she seemed to have come out stronger and wiser for it. "There's no such thing as normal, in White Pine Bay," he told her.

Her expression softened, but again, it was a measured response. "Poor Norman. He's going to be devastated. Miss Watson was one of his favourite teachers; the only one to show any sort of encouragement towards him when we first moved here. If there's anything I can do, Sheriff, please let me know."

He shook his head, more convinced than ever that this was an act. In all the weeks he'd known her, Norma Bates had never been helpful, nor sounded so falsely sincere.

"Just try to keep out of trouble, Norma."

He turned back to his car and heard her spluttering objections once more. This time, he ignored her. In White Pine Bay, nobody knew everything, but everybody knew something. He suspected that more than one somebody knew something about Beverley Watson's death, and he was going to find out who knew what… and then decide what he needed to do about it.